


A Walford Christmas Wedding

by WatMcGregor



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:55:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28261992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatMcGregor/pseuds/WatMcGregor
Summary: Fluffy one-shot for Christmas, based heavily and unashamedly on the movie 'A New York Christmas Wedding' (also with a nod to 'A Christmas Carol'), with added Walford sparkle and magic! How do you get your life back on-track when it's taken a wrong turning? Why, with the help of Phil Mitchell, of course!
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell
Comments: 44
Kudos: 64





	A Walford Christmas Wedding

“Whit, I’m sure we don’t need that many bottles of Prosecco,” says Callum, slumping back on the couch and staring at the ceiling in an attempt to avoid the wedding preparation list Whitney’s hunched over.

She is currently on page three, and the fingers holding it are at least a centimetre apart. A centimetre-wide wad of A4 size paper. That’s not just one or two sheets. No, that list is the size of a small novel – or a long chapter, at least.

“We don’t wanna run out,” says Whitney, amending the figure next to the alcohol item. “Imagine, we get to the toasts and everyone’s drunk everything already! Nightmare!”

“Yeah, nightmare,” says Callum quietly to the ceiling.

Whitney continues her list-checking and Callum lowers his head to glance longingly at the blank telly screen in front of them. His hand seeks out the remote on the arm of the chair, and his fingers tap out a tentative tattoo on the buttons. He checks the time on the mantelpiece clock. Three minutes until he could be welcoming the twenty-two fine upstanding gentlemen of Arsenal and Chelsea into the room. It’s a crunch match, and he’s stuck here plodding through an interminable checklist for a wedding that’s only two short days away.

“Maybe I should ask the cars to come early,” ponders Whitney. “It’s gonna be hell on the roads with everyone doin’ their last-minute Christmas shoppin’. D’ya think I should call ‘em?”

“I dunno why anyone would decide to have their wedding on Christmas Eve anyway,” mumbles Callum. He refrains from sharing his view that marriage in general seems a bit unnecessary.

Whitney twists round to fix him with a withering glare in any case. “You what? You’re only sayin’ this now?”

“Well - ”

“Callum, you knew six months ago we was gonna get married on Christmas Eve.” Her voice rises in volume and pitch. “Why didn’tcha say anythin’ then if ya didn’t like the idea?”

 _For the same reason I ain’t said anything about any aspect of the arrangements_ , thinks Callum. _Too much hassle_. “It’s your day really, ain’t it?” he says instead. “It should be about what you want.”

“Yeah, but I’d like to think you’d shown a little bit of interest, Cal, instead of leavin’ it all up to me.”

He reaches out the hand that isn’t poised over the remote control and strokes it down her arm. “I am interested Whit. I’m as excited as you. I just know how much it all means to ya. All the little details. An’ let’s face it, yer much more artistic than me, ain’t ya? Stands to reason you’d make a better job of it.” He grins. “If you’d left it to me the weddin’ breakfast would’ve bin fish and chips washed down with a Guiness or three.”

“Yeah, well…” Whitney seems placated. “Good job I got so involved then, ain’t it?”

“Exactly!” says Callum. He reaches over and takes the wad of papers from her hands and tosses it onto the coffee table. “It’s gonna be perfect, sweetheart, and all yer doin’ now is gettin’ yerself in a state with all this checkin’ and re-checkin. Tell ya what. Why don’t you go in the other room and make yerself more comfortable? We need to get a bit more practice in for our honeymoon, don’t we?”

His heart warms at the dimples that appear in her cheeks, and she does as he says, practically skipping across to the bedroom. “Come on then.”

“Just give me two seconds. Go and get yer kit off and I’ll be there in a tic.”

Whitney looks back from the doorway and rolls her eyes. “So romantic. You’d better make it worth me while, Callum Highway.”

“Oh I will, darlin’, I will. You ain’t had no complaints yet, have ya?”

As the door closes behind her, Callum flicks on the telly and turns the sound down low. It won’t hurt just to see the kick-off, get an idea of which way the play’s going. He watches as the referee checks with the linesmen and then blows his whistle. Immediately the Gunners are off, heading deep into Chelsea’s half until, just outside the penalty area, Lacazette is brutally brought down.

 _Free kick_ , thinks Callum. _Free kick!_ He thumps the arm of the couch. “Free kick, ref!”

He hears the bedroom door re-open behind him. “Seriously! You sent me out the room so you could watch the footie?”

Callum switches the telly off with a reaction speed a wild West gunslinger would envy, and twists round to face Whitney. “I was only gonna check on it for a second. I very much wanna come and sex you up.”

Whitney crosses to fling herself down beside him again, arms crossed tight across her chest. “Yeah, well, you’ve missed yer chance. I’m gonna go back to my list and you are gonna go down the offie to price up their Prosecco.”

“Aww Whit!”

“I mean it, Cal. You coulda performed yer husbandly duties and bin back in front of the telly for the second half, but now you’ve gotta miss the whole match.” She smiles round at him. “S a tough life, ain’t it?” She points towards the door. “Off ya go. I’ll text ya if anyone scores.”

She gazes at him for a second or two, and when she next speaks, her voice is softer. “And don’t let me find out you’ve stopped off in the pub down the road to watch it on the big screen.”

He grins at her, recognising her comment for what it is. He’s being given a free pass to get away from the incessant wedding planning. Whit’ll be surprised if he comes back much before half five. He stands and gathers his coat from the peg next to the door and shrugs it on as he crosses back over to kiss her on the lips. “I love you, ya know.”

“I do, and that’s just as well, ain’t it? Now get lost and let me obsess over table decorations.”

A two-all draw. If the ref hadn’t been taken in by all the Chelsea players diving left, right and centre, Arsenal would’ve walked that game. Callum tuts to himself one more time as he steps outside the pub and pulls his coat tighter around himself. It’s bitter out, Canning Town High Street a windtunnel down which the cold air blasts from one end to the other. Callum checks his phone to see a message from Whit reminding him to price up the Prosecco, and shoves it back into his pocket, stifling a shiver as he does so.

He strides past the chippie, its tinsel-decorated window illuminated against the dark evening, and gets a blast of warm air as he passes the door of the laundrette just as someone is coming out, a thickset man in a dark bomber jacket with an uncovered bald head that must be freezing.

The bloke keeps pace with Callum as they both head for the crossing on the corner, his lumbering gait just in Callum’s peripheral vision. The lights on the crossing change to red. Callum stops. The bald bloke keeps walking.

“Watch out!”

Callum’s cry is drowned out as a lone car comes out of nowhere with a screech of brakes and clips the bloke. It swerves and roars off in a haze of exhaust fumes, leaving the bloke lying on the ground in its wake. Callum swears he could actually hear the ‘thud’ as the bloke’s head hit the ground.

No one else seems to have noticed the accident. Callum stands and stares around himself in panic as the crossing light changes back to green. He can see that the bloke is stirring and making attempts to get up.

He rushes over to him and tries to still him with hands on his chest. “No! Stay down, you mightta hurt yerself. You might have concussion.”

“I ain’t got concussion,” says the bloke in a thick voice.

“Let me call for an ambulance,” insists Callum, still holding him steady with one hand while trying to wrestle his phone out of his pocket.

The bloke slaps the hand away. “I’m fine!”

“You ain’t! You just got hit by a car.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” The bloke stands up and dusts himself off, then spreads his arms. “See? Fightin’ fit.”

Callum stares at him dubiously, still convinced he should call for an ambulance. “At least come and stand over ‘ere under the light. Let me have a proper look at ya.”

The bloke lets out an annoyed grunt, but allows himself to be led by the arm back to the pavement. As Callum sees his features under the streetlamp, he lets out a gasp, and for the first time the bloke looks concerned. “What? ‘Ave I got mud on me jacket?”

He begins brushing himself down, and Callum grabs his arm to stop him. “Just… just take it easy! You’ve just had a bang on the ‘ead. Stand still for a sec.”

He stares harder at the bloke, a chill prickling down his spine, and the bloke grimaces impatiently back at him. “What?”

“You look like…”

“I look like what?”

“Sorry…” Callum wonders how to phrase his next utterance diplomatically. “You look like someone who’s dead.”

“For god’s sake! I got a little clip from a car. Sommat like that ain’t gonna kill me. Look!”

The bloke begins doing star jumps to demonstrate how very not-dead he is, and Callum tries to intervene again. “Please don’t do that! You mightta got internal injuries. You’ll be makin’ ‘em worse.”

To his relief, the bloke stops jumping around, although he does double over, gasping for breath. “Jesus! I ain’t done that in a while.”

“Right, that’s it,” says Callum, his mind made up. “I’m callin’ that ambulance.”

At that, the bloke stands upright again, a stern look upon his face. “Callum, I forbid you to call an ambulance. If you so much as touch the buttons on that phone I shall throw it into the middle of the road underneath the next bus that comes along, d’you ‘ear me?”

Callum stills, the phone forgotten in his hand. “How d’you know me name?”

Maybe his first thought had been correct. But then that means he must be mistaken about this man in front of him having died of a heart attack three years ago. He peers closer at the man. “Phil Mitchell?”

The bloke indicates himself with a sweep of his hands that’s more theatrical than Callum ever remembered him being. “The very same.”

“B-but…I bumped into Shirley Carter and she told me you’d died.”

Callum looks around himself, as if someone’s about to jump out from behind a letterbox and tell him he’s been pranked.

“Well yeah. Technically I am dead,” says Phil, reluctantly. “But it weren’t a car that killed me. Nah, I ‘ad a dodgy ticker, didn’t I?”

Callum feels like he needs to sit down. “Sorry, I… uh… I thought you just said you were dead.”

“Yeah.” The bloke – Phil – stares at him with a faint smile on his face, as if he’s pleased to be reunited with him.

“So… am I dead an’ all then?” asks Callum, reflecting that Whitney’s going to be mad at him if he’s dipped out on their wedding.

Phil frowns, the look on his face indicating that he thinks he’s dealing with an idiot. “Why would you be dead?”

“What?”

“You ain’t dead, Callum.” Phil gestures to himself. “I’M dead, not you.”

OK, Callum definitely needs to sit down about now. He props himself up against the lamppost. “Sorry… run that by me one more time.”

Phil rolls his eyes and huffs out an impatient breath. “I. Am. Dead. Callum. You. Are. Not. Dead.”

Callum concentrates hard, but then shakes his head in defeat. “Nah, sorry. I’m still not gettin’ it.”

“OK,” says Phil, shifting his weight from one hip to the other and appearing to take pity on Callum. “I died three years ago. Thing is, they don’t tell ya til you get through the pearly gates that -”

“The pearly gates?” asks Callum in disbelief. “You ended up…” He points skywards, still not quite believing that he’s having this conversation.

“We all end up in that direction, Callum,” says Phil, looking vaguely offended. It ain’t up for the good guys and down for the bad ‘uns. Everyone goes through the pearly gates. It’s what happens to ya once yer through that counts.”

He shakes his head, as if trying to get his thoughts back on track. “Anyway, the thing is, what they don’t tell ya is that if yer a bit dodge – if they can’t work out what to do with ya - yer expected to look out for someone back on earth, to prove yerself one way or the other. Someone who might need a bit of guidance to keep their life on track. And you, Callum, ‘ave bin allocated to me, cos clearly I was a much badder man on earth than I realised.”

“What, so yer me guardian angel?” asks Callum, still expecting someone to jump out and yell ‘April Fool’ at him any second now.

Phil looks shamefaced. “They don’t actually use that name. Not when yer new to this. No, I’m yer…” he looks away down the road and mumbles something too quickly for Callum to hear.

“You’re me what?” asks Callum.

“Protective… Christmas fairy,” mutters Phil.

Callum grins. “OK, now I know I’m bein’ pranked! You, Phil Mitchell, are my protective Christmas fairy?”

“Yeah.”

Phil shrugs violently, as if Callum is making a big deal out of something that should be insignificant. Callum remembers how bad-tempered he could get back in the day, and decides not to labour the point. “But wait! You said you look out for people who need help keepin’ their life on-track. My life’s perfectly on-track. Girl of me dreams, about to get married. Nice flat, decent job.”

Phil stares disbelievingly at him. “And you never wished you’d taken a different path?”

“No,” says Callum, his voice hesitant.

“Sure?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Really sure?”

“Well…”

Phil’s face cracks into a faint grin. “Thought so. And that’s why I’m here, Callum. Yer gettin’ married in two days, ain’t ya? Time’s runnin’ out.”

“For what?”

“For seein’ where that other path woulda taken ya.”

Callum frowns. “What other path?”

“What’s yer biggest regret in life, eh Callum?”

Callum remains silent. He knows what his biggest regret is, but he’s not about to share it with Phil Mitchell, of all people.

Phil waits for a few seconds, hands on hips, and then chuckles. “Right, well, what you ain’t realised is that I see everythin’. I’ve had a reel of yer whole life played to me, Callum. Cos like I said, I was obviously a much worse man during me time on earth than I realised.”

“Everything?” asks Callum, his face heating up in shame.

“Everything,” confirms Phil. “I already know what yer biggest regret is, Callum. An’ I’m gonna take ya back there right now.”

“What? No! What if I don’t wanna go?”

Phil shrugs again. “Your choice. But you’ll be kickin’ yerself if you don’t take the chance to put things right.”

“I don’t understand, Phil. It’s water under the bridge. How can I put it right all these years later?”

“Trust me,” says Phil, his expression hardening. Callum wonders at the change of expression until he realises he must be giving Phil his most doubting look right about now.

“All you gotta do is close yer eyes,” says Phil. “I’ll do the rest. I’m quite lookin’ forward to tryin’ this, as it happens.”

Callum feels his eyes closing of their own accord, but then he opens them wide with a start. “Whatcha gonna do? You gonna hit me?”

“No I ain’t gonna hit ya. You just need to trust me.”

“Yeah, see that’s what I got the problem with,” admits Callum. He considers his options for a second or two. It would be incredible to put right that one big mistake he made all those years ago. But that presupposes this isn’t all just a moment of madness. Maybe he was the one who got hit by the car. Maybe this is his concussion. Well, if that’s the case, he supposes there’s no harm in going with it, just until the ambulance comes to sedate him and whisk him into a hospital bed.

He nods his head resolutely. “OK. I’m gonna go with this. Do yer worst.”

“Right. Finally!” says Phil. “Bleedin’ ‘ell, old Arthur Fowler got a lovely little kid to watch over. I get you, ya big lummox! Right, close yer eyes. We coulda saved a whole lotta time if you’d just done what you was told in the first place.”

Callum glares at him, but does as he’s told anyway. His eyes close, and there’s a brief flash of light, then he becomes aware that the sounds of Canning Town High Street have faded away, to be replaced with the opening chords of ‘Somewhere’ from West Side Story.

He opens his eyes. Phil is nowhere to be seen. Callum’s in a living room. The couch beneath him is plush. He’s twenty-eight, with fewer aches and pains than he has in his late-thirties. In front of him, a boy five years younger is closing the lid on the record player, his back to Callum. He’s about to turn round.

Callum knows what this is.

He knows what’s going to happen. He knows how thoroughly he messed everything up.

This has always been Callum’s place of refuge. Whenever he’s had a knockback or a rubbish day at work, he can come here and know that the next few hours will be filled with laughter and the company of someone who ‘gets’ him.

“Everyone’s out,” says Ben, turning to face him. He leans back against the sideboard. His eyes are soft.

“Yeah? Yer dad sortin’ out that dodgy car deal?” ask Callum.

“Probably. I don’t ask too many questions. Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Ben crosses to sit beside Callum. There’s the space of a cushion between them. “You ‘ad a good day?”

“So-so. I’m knackered.”

“Yeah? Poor old bloke.”

Callum mock-glares round at him. “Oi! Less of the ‘old’, thank you very much.”

They grin at each other, and Ben shifts a little closer. “I’m glad everyone’s out, cos I wanted to tell ya somethin’. Bin thinkin’ about it for a while now…”

“Oh yeah?” Callum sees that Ben’s expression has become more serious, more intense.

“We’ve become really good mates, ain’t we, Cal?” begins Ben.

“Yeah.” Callum huffs out a laugh. “God knows how that happened.” He sobers as he realises Ben isn’t laughing.

He’s looking nervous. Bright-eyed, nervous - but resolute.

“I, uh...I wanted to tell ya Cal, that I bin thinking for some time there’s somethin’ more.”

Callum frowns. “More? More than what?”

Ben edges a little closer, his fingers reaching out to play with the hem of Callum’s shirt. “More between us. I think I’m in love with ya Cal.”

He closes the last tiny gap between them and Callum feels his lips, warm and dry, on the corner of his mouth. There’s a moment of surrender, and then he comes to his senses and pulls back abruptly, speechless for a second or two in the moment that hangs heavy between them.

“What the hell..? Whatcha doin’ Ben?”

The proud, excited smile on Ben’s face vanishes in a flash, to be replaced with desperation. “Sorry! I thought ya felt the same. I’m sorry! Please don’t -”

“Get away from me Ben! Don’t ever try that again, ya hear me?” Callum jumps to his feet. He needs to put distance between them again. Lots of distance. He heads for the door and out of the house, Ben’s anguished cries ringing behind him.

Outside, he pauses on the pavement, breathing heavily. There’s a flash of light again. He can’t tell if it comes from outside or inside his head.

“Well?” says a voice from the darkness that follows.

“Well what?” asks Callum, searching around himself for the source of the voice.

Phil steps out from behind the phone box. “That back there. That was yer biggest regret, weren’t it?”

Callum nods miserably.

“So what would you have done different?”

“I’d’ve kissed him back,” says Callum, so quietly his words are barely a whisper. “I felt the same. I just couldn’t admit it to meself. Not then.”

“Didn’t quite catch ya,” says Phil, stepping closer.

“I’d have kissed him back.”

Callum sees a look of distaste pass over Phil’s face. “Yeah. See, I told you someone up there was punishin’ me. This is what I ‘ave to put up with. Arthur Fowler got a nice uncomplicated kid on drugs to save. What do I get? Walford’s answer to Liberace.”

Callum bristles. “Now hold on a sec -”

“Ah, so you ‘ave gotta bit of gay pride in there somewhere then,” says Phil, looking triumphant. “Right, so you gotta chance to put things right. Whatcha gonna do?”

“What can I do?”

Callum is rewarded with the look of disbelief Phil Mitchell reserves for the people he regards as cretins. He focuses his gaze on the pavement and tries to ignore it. “If I went back in… would he still be there? Should I go back in?”

“I can’t give ya any advice,” says Phil. “All I can do is signpost ya. Show ya what’s what.”

Callum feels again the stab of arousal that had shot through him at the feel of Ben’s lips, as acute now as it had been when it first happened. Immediately after, he’d felt shame just as acute, but in the years since he’s had the chance to deal with that. He’s rehearsed so many times what might have happened if he hadn’t panicked that he knows now the arousal would blot out the shame. The love he’d been oblivious to would blot out the shame.

As he stares down at the pavement, there’s another flash of light. He nods determinedly to himself and retraces his steps back into the house.

Inside, it’s quiet. ‘Somewhere’ is no longer playing on the record player, and the living room is empty when he peers round the door.

“Ben?”

In one of the rooms above, a floorboard creaks.

He treads softly up the stairs, stopping outside the room on the right. Ben’s room. He taps gently on the door, but when there’s no response he takes a deep breath and pushes it open.

Ben’s standing at the window with his back to him. His shoulders are hunched and as Callum watches him, he hears a sniff. “Ben?”

The younger man tenses. “Go away Callum.” His voice is thick. He clears his throat roughly.

“No.”

They stand in silence, until Callum adds, “You kissed me.”

“Yeah, and you couldn’t get outta here fast enough, so why d’ya come back, eh Callum?” Ben turns to face him, and Callum sees that his tear-streaked face is defiant. “Come to have another go at me, eh?”

“Come to finish the job,” says Callum. He smiles at the frown that spreads across Ben’s face, and crosses to take him in his arms.

“I’m sorry, OK? I reacted badly. I was taken by surprise. This is what I shoulda done.”

Ben struggles for only a second before submitting, kissing back just as hard as Callum, and they meander backwards as the kiss deepens until they topple onto the bed and Callum feels Ben’s hard, warm body flexing beneath his. It feels just as amazing as he’d imagined it would in all the intervening years.

Another flash of light and Callum finds himself back on the street corner where he’d first witnessed Phil Mitchell get knocked over by a car. He’s standing alone underneath the streetlamp. He gazes around, blindsided by the sudden change in his surroundings again. A gang of lads pass him, exchanging loud observations about the Chelsea-Arsenal match, and the traffic ebbs and flows as the lights change from green to amber to red and back again, the colours reflected in the puddles at the side of the road. Callum touches his lips with freezing fingers, still feeling them tingle from Ben’s kisses.

“So? You decided what ya want?” Phil appears from the darkness of the side street, making Callum start.

“I know what I want. I always knew, deep down.”

“Well, there you are then.”

“There I am where?” asks Callum, feeling an ache in his chest at the lack of Ben. “What’s changed? So, Ben knows how I felt about him, but we never ended up together, did we? He’s still out there somewhere - god knows where - and I’m still about to marry Whit.”

The look of disbelief appears on Phil’s face again. “What, you thought my sole purpose was to show you what ya missed? You thought I was Jim Bowen?”

“Jim who?”

“Bullseye, Callum, Bullseye - remember? ‘Here’s what ya coulda won’.”

Callum realises that he still hasn’t established if he’s just suffering from a concussion. The more the evening goes on, the more he’s becoming convinced that it’s the only logical explanation. He stares in bemusement at Phil.

“Give me strength!” exclaims Phil. “How comes Arthur Fowler didn’t get allocated to ya? Stealin’ that Christmas Club money alone shoulda qualified him for dealing with you, but no, muggins ‘ere gets lumbered with ya instead.”

“Tell me what you want, then!” shouts Callum. “Tell me! I ain’t got no idea what’s goin’ on here!”

A couple of passing women stare at him askance, then speed up along the pavement.

“I don’t want anything, Callum. You gotta chance here to follow the path you shoulda taken. You just gotta choose.”

“But it ain’t that simple! Whatever I choose, someone’s gonna end up hurt.”

“C’mon.” Phil beckons to him to follow as he starts walking. “Let’s take a wander.”

Callum sets off after him and they walk past the newsagent, the hardware store and the off licence. Staring into its window he sees his reflection. His alone. No one walks beside him.

He glances ahead. Yep, Phil is still there, just a step in front of him, but he passes through the world unnoticed and unreflected.

“I can show ya more,” says Phil. “Take ya more places to help ya make up yer mind. Interested?”

“What ya gonna show me?” asks Callum.

“Wait and see.” Phil turns and waits, eyebrows raised, until Callum gives a brief nod. Immediately, the light flashes again and Callum closes his eyes against the glare.

Music pounds against his ear-drums. When he opens his eyes again, he’s in a nightclub. Lights are flashing in time with the music. Men drink and dance and flirt, enjoying each others’ company. One man in particular weaves his way in between the groups of friends. His unsteady gait indicates that he’s drunk. He’s alone. Of all the men in that club, he’s the only one alone.

He approaches a group of men and whispers something in the ear of one of them, a blond guy, waving his pint glass around as he speaks. Liquid sloshes from it onto the floor. The blond guy turns away from him with a theatrical grimace, and his group of friends laugh at the interloper. As he heads away from them and wanders into the middle of the dancefloor, he begins to sway to the music, and the strobe lights pick out his features. It’s Ben. A middle-aged Ben, dancing alone.

Callum’s heart falls. He takes a step towards him, but feels a hand on his arm. Phil.

“Uh-uh. Not this time. You can’t touch ‘im. You can only watch.”

“But he looks so sad!” says Callum.

“He never got over his first love,” says Phil.

“Me?” asks Callum.

The nod Phil gives is all the answer he needs. The lights reflect off Phil’s head, turning it purple and red and yellow in turn. “Spent his life tryin’ to find someone who measured up, but…” he shrugs and shakes his head, then turns and looks around himself, grimacing. “God! Why do I ‘ave to come to a place like this? It ain’t natural, is it? All these blokes together.”

Callum can’t tear his eyes away from Ben. He swallows down the bitterness at the blond guy who’d rejected him and a sudden thought occurs to him. “Maybe this is s’posed to be a lesson for you, too, Phil.”

“How d’ya mean?”

“I’m guessin’ you weren’t exactly sympathetic to Ben bein’ gay. Maybe this is about teachin’ you tolerance.”

Phil snorts. “OK, OK, so I’m tolerant now. I’ve learnt me lesson. Can we move on?”

“No -” Callum protests, but it’s too late.

The light flashes bright white again, and he finds himself in a corridor. An apartment building.

Without knowing how, he finds himself selecting the door behind which he’s sure he will find Whitney. He knocks on it. There’s a sound from inside, a baby crying and a muffled exchange of words, and the door is unlocked and pulled open.

There stands Whitney with a little boy, no more than two or three years of age, on her hip. She looks older, tireder somehow. It worries Callum.

Her eyes look him up and down, but there’s no flash of recognition. “Can I ‘elp ya?”

“Whit!”

She frowns. “Yeah?”

“It’s me!”

She looks as if she’s expecting to be the butt of a joke. A confused smile creases her face. “Sorry, do I know you?”

A man’s voice sounds from further inside the flat. “Who is it, Whit?”

“I dunno,” she answers. “Some bloke who’s actin’ like he knows me.”

The door is pulled further open and a man appears at Whitney’s shoulder, dark-haired and muscular, with designer stubble. He frowns at Callum. “Yes mate? What d’ya want?”

Callum is speechless. Whitney seems like a stranger. A different woman living a different life. Jealousy sparks in his chest.

“Look mate, I don’t know what you want, but piss off, yeah?” The man takes Whitney by the shoulders and manoeuvres her behind him, protective and suspicious.

Callum opens his mouth to protest, but then realises it’s futile. “Sorry. I made a mistake,” he mutters as he turns away.

The door shuts fast behind him, and he hears the chain being put on and bolts being drawn.

Phil appears at the end of the corridor.

“I don’t understand,” says Callum. “It’s like she had no idea who I was.”

“Well, she wouldn’t, would she?” asks Phil. “If you’d taken the other path, the one with our Ben, she would never’ve met ya.”

“So she would have ended up with some other man? Had kids with him?”

“Yup.”

Jealousy sparks again. “But that coulda bin my life.”

“Still could be, dependin’ on the choice ya make.”

Callum shakes his head. “This ain’t fair. It’s impossible. How can I choose between the life I got planned and the one I never had?”

Phil heaves a deep sigh. “OK, I weren’t gonna do this, but you leave me no choice.”

Callum steels himself against the punch he’s sure is coming, but instead, Phil takes a step back and looks him up and down appraisingly. “I’m gonna havta take emergency measures. How d’ya feel about a trial run?”

“What d’ya mean?” asks Callum.

“Of course I’ll havta explain it to ya, won’t I? I’ve never known anyone so slow on the uptake, Callum. God knows what our Ben ever saw in ya.”

“There’s no need to be rude,” says Callum, beginning to lose patience and wishing he’d just spent his afternoon poring over Whit’s wedding preparation list.

“How about ya spend some time with Ben? Twenty-four hours, and then ya make yer choice.” Phil wags his finger at Callum. “And no goin’ back once you’ve chosen. This is it. Make or break time.”

Callum thinks of all the stolen moments over the years, quiet moments; times in the pub with friends when Whit was telling some interminable story that he’d heard three times before. Moments when he’d allowed himself to daydream about what it might have been like if he’d only responded to Ben that night. There’s no way he can turn down this offer.

It feels to him like he’s hardly begun to nod his head when the flash of light occurs again and he finds himself in a bed. Not a bed he’s ever been in before.

The sheets are freshly laundered and smell different to the ones he usually shares with Whit. The bedroom, dimly-lit by morning light, is decorated in a more masculine style. Gone are the pink walls and the flowery duvet cover. This room is painted a bottle-green, and the duvet cover is green tartan. A television stands on the chest of drawers at the bottom of the bed with a Playstation connected to it by a tangle of wires. There are a couple of paintings on the walls, tasteful reproductions of male nudes.

Callum stretches in the bed and hears the sound of quiet whistling approaching from outside the room. The door is pushed open wide and Ben appears carrying a tray of breakfast things. His face looks more defined than it had when he was still a youngster, more settled into its features. Still as handsome as ever.

He smiles widely when he sees Callum. “You’re awake at last! Thought I’d worn you out last night.”

“What’s all this?” asks Callum, struggling to sit up in the bed and noticing as he does so that his body is aching in the best way possible. “Not often I get breakfast in bed.” He wonders how he knows that. He explores the furthest recesses of his mind and realises they house a whole host of memories. New memories. Recollections spanning years that he shouldn’t have, by rights.

Ben places the tray gently on the duvet and slides back into bed beside him, fixing him with a concerned look. “You alright babe? You zoned out there for a while.”

“Uh… yeah. Course.”

“I thought,” says Ben, handing Callum a mug of coffee and placing the tray on the floor beside the bed, “that seein’ as it’s the first day of our holidays, I’d treat ya. First day of our holidays, last day before we tie the knot. A landmark day.”

“What’s the date?” asks Callum, feeling blindsided once again. He chances a quick look around the room, but thankfully Phil is nowhere to be seen.

“The 23rd December, babe,” says Ben, looking no less concerned than he had a few seconds earlier. “You sure yer OK?”

Through the open bedroom door, Callum can see a Christmas tree in the living room, decorated in gold and red. A Christmas tree he suddenly remembers decorating with Ben two weekends ago. He swallows down his confusion and smiles reassuringly at him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just…uh… just panickin’ about all the last minute arrangements for us…uh… tyin’ the knot?”

He realises too late that he’s phrased it as a question, but he’s still not entirely sure what’s going on here.

“Well let’s face it, there ain’t many arrangements to make,” says Ben, snuggling into his side. “When you’ve already bin a couple for nine years it ain’t hardly gonna be an all-singin’ all-dancin’ affair, is it? Nah, s’more of a formality than anythin’.”

Callum places an arm around him, luxuriating in the feel of his body next to his. “What? You mean you ain’t got a secret fifty page wedding plan stashed away somewhere?”

“Nah. We said we’d keep it simple, and I stuck to that. You know everything about how it’s gonna go. Apart from the weddin’ breakfast – I wanted to make that a surprise for ya, but I think you’ll like it.”

“Yer such a romantic!” say Callum, wondering how he knows that. He remembers the song Ben had put on the record player before he declared how he felt about him all those years ago. That’s how he knows. _There’s a place for us. Somewhere a place for us. Hold my hand and I’ll take you there_ …

“Yep,” agrees Ben, “but I ain’t some bridezilla. And anyway, I thought you was always the one that said he didn’t believe in marriage. How come yer so worried about the details now?”

“I ain’t against marriage per se,” says Callum, surprising himself at how his views seem to have changed on the matter. “It depends who’s doin’ the gettin’ married, don’t it?”

He places his coffee mug on the bedside cabinet and twists to take Ben in his arms. They kiss, and his thoughts are instantly transported back to that first time in Ben’s house. Ben’s lips are warm and dry on the corner of his mouth. “Feels like the first time,” says Callum, more to himself than anything.

Ben pulls back and stares at him, bright-eyed. “Yer a bit of an old romantic too, ain’t ya?”

“Oi! Less of the old!”

“What d’ya wanna do today, old man? Last day of freedom! Want me to get out of yer hair for a few hours?”

“Nah, course not. I wanna spend every second with ya. You got any last minute Christmas shoppin’ to do?”

Ben considers, tracing a finger over Callum’s chest. “Not really. We could stop off at the Winter Wonderland in the Square though, get a hot chocolate, mooch around for a bit.”

“I can’t think of anythin’ I’d like more than moochin’ around with you,” says Callum. It’s true. Even in the short time he’s been here, he feels more content, more connected to another human being than he ever has before in his life. He tries to ignore the guilt he feels when he thinks of Whitney. Despite what Phil had said, he can’t imagine that she wouldn’t feel the lack of him in her life.

“Excellent,” says Ben, as if a deal’s been struck. He reaches over the side of the bed to pick up their plates of toast from the tray and passes one to Callum. “Eat up quick then. Sooner ya finish, the sooner the moochin’ can commence!”

“Maybe some smoochin’, too?” says Callum.

Ben grins at him. “If ya play yer cards right.”

Later that day, Albert Square is vibrant and noisy, Christmas songs playing from every stall and shop, and lights hanging from the metal railings around the garden in the centre, surrounding the giant Christmas tree. Over-excited kids scoot around, getting under everyone’s feet, and friends and neighbours call cheery greetings to each other.

Callum and Ben wander hand-in-hand through the throng, no particular place to be and in no rush to get there. They try on silly Christmas hats from the hat stall and eat roasted chestnuts from an open grill outside the laundrette. Ben buys Callum a rainbow keyring despite his protestations that it’s Christmas soon and he’s sure Ben’s probably spent far too much money on him already. They kiss outside the Minute Mart. At regular intervals throughout the day, Ben announces how many more hours there are to go before they’re married.

Later that evening, in the light of their own Christmas tree, when they’re collapsed against each other on the couch watching a re-run of West Side Story on BBC2, Callum tries to reconcile himself with the choice he has to make. He examines it from all possible angles, his head aching with the effort of trying to come to a decision. He just can’t do it. Whatever he does, whoever he chooses, he’s going to be eaten up with guilt and remorse at the thought of the path he didn’t follow. It’s not fair to make him choose. His life was totally on-track until Phil bleedin’ Mitchell reappeared.

The opening bars of ‘Somewhere’ begin in the film, and Ben twists round to look up at him with soft eyes from where he’s resting his head on Callum’s chest. “D’you remember?”

Callum smiles down at him. “Yeah, I remember. How could I forget? That evenin’ stayed with me all me life.”

“We should have this as our first song tomorrow,” says Ben, blissfully unaware of the turmoil playing out inside Callum.

“Yeah, that would be lovely, babe,” says Callum sadly. Whitney decided on the song she and Callum would have months ago. Some Ed Sheeran thing. Callum’s not sure which one – they all sound the same to him.

They go to bed early, wanting to be rested for their big day on Christmas Eve. Despite his worries, Callum sleeps soundly, comforted by the warmth of Ben breathing softly against his shoulder all night. He’s woken the next morning by Ben opening the wardrobe door to take out their wedding suits; blue for Callum, burgundy for Ben.

“This is it then, babe,” says Ben when he notices Callum’s awake. He looks nervous, as if he’s expecting rejection. “Last chance to back out.”

Callum smiles gently at him. He opens his mouth to say – what?

He’ll never know.

There’s another blinding flash of light and the bedroom, the wardrobe, the suits, Ben – they’re all gone.

He’s back under the streetlamp on Canning Town High Street. He’s alone.

“No, no, no!” he wails, his voice echoing between the tall buildings. A group of football fans stare curiously at him, their summing-up of the Chelsea-Arsenal game silenced as they observe his anguish. They quicken their pace to get away from him, glancing back in concern every now and again.

He tries to ignore them and stares intently around himself. Phil Mitchell is nowhere to be seen. Maybe it WAS all just a concussion. It had felt so real though. To have it, and then have it all snatched away from him feels like the cruellest trick the universe could ever play on him.

He slides down the wall of the shop he’s leaning against, and sits on the ground, not caring that the cold winter wind is still whipping from one end of the High Street to the other. He begins to shiver as his eyes fill with tears, the wind snatching them away as soon as they form. He shoves his hands into his pockets to try and keep them warm, and his left hand closes around something he wasn’t expecting to be there. He pulls it out slowly.

The rainbow keyring.

A shadow stretches over him, and he looks up to see Phil Mitchell, puffing and panting as if he’s just been doing more star jumps.

“Sorry! Sorry!” exclaims Phil. “I got caught up. Turns out the kid Arthur Fowler’s tryin’ to sort out is a bit more trouble than he realised. I had to go an’ give him a hand.” He grimaces. “Just as well, from what I seen of you an’ our Ben. Don’t think I’d’ve wanted to be a witness to anything else that went on between the two of ya.”

Callum knows now. He knows that decisions like this don’t get made with the head. They’re made with the heart. He grins up at Phil with giddy abandon.

“You made up yer mind?” asks Phil.

Callum pulls himself upright again to look him in the eyes. He nods. There’s another flash of light.

“So, I’m delighted to welcome Callum into our family at long last. Not that he ain’t been like a son to me for years anyway, but it’s finally official.”

There are ‘oohs’ and ‘awws’ from the rest of the wedding party, and glasses clink in a toast. Callum stares around himself at the small group of friends and family who have gathered to celebrate his wedding. At the remains of the wedding breakfast in front of them all. Fish and chips and pints of Guinness – just what he’d have chosen himself. At the Queen Vic, all decked out in Christmas lights and tinsel, and a massive ‘Just Married’ banner over the fireplace next to where their wedding party is taking place, and smiles, inwardly and outwardly.

“Thanks Kathy. I’m gonna look after him. You don’t need to worry about that. He’s the most important thing in me life, and I ain’t never gonna let anyone hurt ‘im.”

“I know, love,” says Kathy, looking a bit tearful.

Callum takes the hand of the man beside him. The man in a burgundy suit who watches West Side Story at least three times a year. The man who makes him complete.

“Ben Mitchell, I love ya, an’ yer stuck with me now. I propose a toast to the most beautiful man in the world.”

Everyone clinks their glasses once again, and as Callum takes a sip from his pint, he sees a figure in a dark bomber jacket standing in the far corner of the pub. He raises his glass to him. Phil Mitchell gives him a double thumbs-up just as Ben leans in to plant a kiss on Callum’s cheek.

“Happy Christmas, babe,” whispers Ben. “Was it a genius idea to have a Walford Christmas wedding, or was it a genius idea?”

“It was a genius idea, sweetheart,” agrees Callum, glancing round at him.

When he looks back towards Phil, the corner is empty.


End file.
